Making Heaven
by JessBecauseIAm
Summary: The apocalypse doesn't begin when Lilith dies, because of a final, forgotten seal - Clara Winchester. She is claimed by neither Heaven nor Hell, but suddenly, everyone wants her dead. Everyone except her brothers Sam and Dean, and Cas, her newly appointed guardian angel. Cas/OC pairing with ensemble cast, rated T for now.


**Okay, so, first fanfic in a LONG time. I might be a little rusty, but it's up to you guys to tell me that :D Please R+R!**

I unlaced my boots for the fifth time in ten minutes. I was restless in a way I hadn't been for months, the urge to leave everything behind and travel stronger than I'd let it get since I'd left Sam and Dean.

It was Dean's death that did me in. Hunting, I loved. The anticipation before the hunt was the best part of the job; the build-up of stringing iron pieces around my neck and wrists, scrubbing salt into the soles of my boots, tracing ancient symbols of protection onto my skin. But a life without my oldest brother was a life that I wasn't interested in. I ran, and I hadn't looked back since.

The tiny cottage I'd bought hugged a lake shore in Minnesota, far enough from my demons that they hunted me, but couldn't take root in my head the way they did at Bobby's. I had a job working in the kind of diner Sam, Dean and I used to eat at, earning just enough to keep my house and the little Ford I'd bought. This life I'd carved for myself was peaceful, safe, light hearted, happy. Every day felt like a lie.

The cottage was so small—one bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and lounge—that I could hear the bath I was running from the other side of the house. It was a gigantic thing, that tub, so out of place in the homey little cottage that I loved it instantly, and it took nearly twenty minutes to fill. The bath, I hoped, would settle my nerves, quell my wander lust. I sunk into one of the two squashy, red cloth sofas while I waited for it to run, picking at the stitching on the arm. There was a storm tonight, pushing mist from the lake up to the windows and throwing rain against the windows in careless, wet handfuls.

This was the kind of storm that would have sent me reaching for salt in my old life, lining the windows and doors and drawing sprawling pentagrams with the white grains. Now, I just ran an uneasy thumb against the ring on the third finger of my left hand. The thin silver band broadened into the wide circle encasing a five pointed star, two slender angels on either side holding the pentagram on their outstretched wings. The ring had mine for over a decade, presented to be by Sam the same Christmas night he gave Dean his amulet.

I was startled from the memory by the sharp sound of shattering glass. A glass I'd left on the chunky oak coffee table lay in sparkling shards on the floor, an inch of coke seeping into the cream carpet. "Son of a bitch," I cursed softly, reaching for the knife sheathed at my hip.

"Who's there?" I called out, feeling stupid even as the words left my lips. What kind of threat would announce its presence?

There was the sound of great wings beating against each other, and then—a man, stood two feet away from me. A surprised shriek died in my throat even as I parted my lips to yell for help; no-one would come for me in my out-of-the-way home.

"Who the Hell are you?" I demanded, hefting my hunting knife in my hand. It was a wicked looking thing, as long as my forearm and serrated near the hilt.

The man fixed me with a bright blue stare. "My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord."

My first instinct was to laugh. An angel? Angels weren't real. Never, in twenty four years of hunting, had I even heard of an angel, and I was pretty damn sure they didn't wear dress shirts, ties or trench coats. But there was something about the way the man—Castiel—spoke, a strong conviction in his deep, gravelly voice that halted my derision. "What are you doing in my house?

"I am not here to hurt you," he reassured me. I kept my knife ready at my side, hoping I was faster than whatever he was.

"Super," I said, moistening my lips. "What _are_ you here for?"

He shifted his weight forwards slightly. "You are in great danger, Clara Winchester. Demons are on their way to harm you even as we speak."

"How do you know my name?" I asked quietly. My pulse was climbing, clammy sweat beading my palms. A single curl of vivid ginger hair had escaped the high ponytail I'd pulled my hair into, lying against my temple as bright as copper wire.

"I know your brothers," Castiel said calmly.

I was gripping my knife so hard, my fingers ached. "I only have one brother," I said tightly. "My oldest brother is—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

Castiel reached into a pocket of his trench coat and drew out a black cord. Threaded onto the cord was an amulet I recognised as well as my own ring. Dean's amulet, clasped in the large fist of this strange man who claimed to be an angel. "Dean is alive. I am the one who raised him from Hell and restored his life, and now I have a new charge."

There was no way I could process the thought of Dean being alive. The sight of the amulet alone lodged something thick in my throat that I couldn't swallow past. "What?"

"Sixty six seals that keep Lucifer imprisoned in Hell have broken. There is a final, forgotten seal that is all that keeps this world from apocalypse. You are the final seal, Clara. Lucifer cannot be free whilst you live."

I gasped, "Oh my God." Then, my voice strained, "I gave that life up months ago."

"Whether you want it or not, every demon in Hell who seeks the rise of their master wants you dead. I have been assigned as your personal guardian, but you need to come with me." He said gravely.

I took a step back and the backs of my knees bumped into the coffee table. "Uh, sorry man, but there is no way in Heaven or Earth that I'm going to go anywhere with a delusional guy who thinks he's an angel."

"My apologies," Castiel said, "but it was not a request." He reached out a hand to my shoulder, and I felt the floor vanish beneath my feet. Just before I blacked out, I remembered my bath, still running down the hall.

* * *

My first thought when I opened my eyes was _I need to get away from here._ It was only after that that I realised I didn't know where _here _was. A scummy motel room, by the looks of things. I'd woken up in rooms like this so often that I no longer needed to check for the customary motel-stationary. When you grow up in road-side hotels and inns, the stale scent of too many people in the same room mixed with asphalt and hundreds of different deodorants becomes wearily familiar.

From the bed beside the one I lay on, I heard a quiet, piercingly familiar voice. "Clara," Dean greeted me.

My shoulders stiffened. "You're dead," I whispered, not daring to turn around. The last time I'd seen him, his face had been ruined and his shirt soaked through with crimson blood.

"I _was _dead. Our buddy Cas fixed that," he said warmly. I could hear the smile in his voice without turning, but I did anyway. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, a soft smile on his face. We looked alike, Dad had always said, more than I looked like Sam, my twin.

"Dean," I said, and the word was a prayer and thanks at the same time. He grinned his wide grin, drawing me forwards into his arms. I was in a motel again after nearly a year of my own house, my bathroom was probably flooding even as I squeezed him tight, I'd been kidnapped by an angel, and _Dean was alive._

He squeezed me back, tight enough to make my ribs ache and my head spin. "I missed you, Clary," he murmured into my hair. The old nickname pulled a smile onto my lips. He held me at arm's length, staring into my eyes, the same shade of green as his.

"How long have you been back?"

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Eight months?"

"You let me think you were dead for _eight fucking months?_ Son of a bitch!" I cried, anger heating in my stomach.

He frowned, looking away. "Sam said you were happy as you were. He said you had a life—a normal life, Clara. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

A sigh hissed through my lips. "I did—do. But I would've come back to you in a heartbeat, Dean, you have to know that. Being a hunter is who I am. I cried myself to sleep every night for six months! Every day, I turned around to ask your something, I grabbed you a beer from the fridge, I got out my phone to call you, and then I remembered. You and Sam let me do all that, feel all that, for _eight months?_ And Sam—how could he keep me in the dark like that? Where _is _he?"

Dean steepled his fingers and propped his chin on them, breathing in deeply and releasing a soft sigh. "He's getting us something to eat." He glanced at me, gauging my anger, and smirked at what he saw. "Cheese and bacon burger, right?" he grinned.

The glare I levelled at Dean was one I hadn't used at all in the past year. "If you . . ."

He laughed, tipping his head back to the stained ceiling. "I missed that look! Barbeque burger with extra chilli, nothing else for little-miss-fad."

My stomach felt flat and hard, reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything since the day before, my dinner another thing left forgotten in my little house. I glanced around the room; though there were three beds, there was no sign of the angel ever being here. "Where's the guy who dumped me here?"

Dean glanced around quickly, shrugging into the empty room. "Cas? He's watching, trust me. Give you a heart attack appearing out of no-where, but he's a good guy. He's my friend."

I sucked my teeth sharply, kicking my unlaced boots off. They hit the floor with two low, solid _thuds_. The boots were thick brown leather combats, built in knife sheathes hidden in the supple leather; they were one of the only things I'd allowed myself to keep from my hunter life. "Your _friend_ kidnapped me. When I see him again, I may punch him in the face."

"Go nuts," Dean said heartily, rising and striding over to a sink set into the wall. "I broke a knuckle."

"Where does the guy get off doing that kind of thing? Jerk ass." I muttered. I still wasn't sure I believed in angels. I wanted to, it was just—we'd have heard of one, or know someone who'd heard of one.

Dean shrugged. "Just the way he is, Clary. Nothing personal. What's his deal with you, anyway? He yanked me out the hot box for some heavenly plan."

"Apparently, you two clowns nearly started the apocalypse and the only thing keeping Satan in his cage is my life. Guess who scored a guardian angel?" The rhetorical question was laced with underlying smugness. It felt empowering to be the one who mattered, the one who people needed to protect them. The news that my life was keeping the apocalypse restrained made me feel worthy and needed.

Dean blew out a slow sigh. "Fantastic. Of all the people in the world—I goddamn die to save Sammy's life and I'm not back a year before every demon in Hell wants of piece of you? I need to talk to Cas."

Even in the way Dean said the angel's name, I could see the familiarity of a strong friendship. So soon after reuniting with Dean, and I was already searching for ways to rile him. He was scraping at his nails with a hunting knife, frowning at the grime on the blade. "Are all angels as hot as Castiel?" I asked happily, "Because seriously, the guy's a perfect 10. His face, those eyes? And he has such a deep voice, God, if I—"

"Enough!" Dean yelled, pitching the nearest object—a bar of soap—at my head. He'd never been able to handle the idea of me in a relationship, of me having any physical contact with a man other than he and Sam. Laughter bubbled through my lips as I ducked the missile, the soap sailing over my head and smacking into the door. Slowly, it swung open, revealing Sam holding two bags of diner food, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Who threw the soap?" he asked, setting the bag down on one of the beds. I didn't give him a chance to continue, launching myself into his arms. My twin dwarfed me, nearly a foot taller than my 5'5, but his jacket was a familiar texture against my cheek and the cloth smelled like home as much as my house did.

"It's good to see you again, Clary," he smiled.

There was no room in my heart for the angry words we'd exchanged before we parted, and no room in my head for anything else, so I hugged him tighter, sewing out little family back together as it should be, apologies tight on all our breathless lips.

* * *

Burger wrappers littered my bed, balled into a waxy heap mottled with grease spots. Dean and Sam, stretched out on the beds either side of me, had contented half-smiles on their faces, tossing jokes over my head and gently ribbing each other, just like old times. I hugged my arms around myself, the thin hoody and jean's I'd been wearing when Castiel took me doing little to keep me warm in the poorly-heated motel room.

Sam saw me shiver and sat up quickly. "I almost forgot," he said with a wide smile that I recognised from my childhood. It was a hopeful smile, the smile he wore when he had something for me and couldn't wait to see my face when he gave it. He leant over the side of his bed to rummage in his duffel bag, retrieving a dark khaki shape.

"Is that—?" I asked slowly.

He balled it up and threw it to me. I let the rough material unfold in my hands. It was my combat jacket, as precious to me as the Impala was Dean. I'd first picked it up in a thrift store outside New Orleans when I was ten. The jacket was a large man's size and had dwarfed me. I'd had to roll the sleeves six or seven times for my small hands to stick out of the cuffs.

Dad and Dean had declared the jacket ridiculous and predicted it would fall apart within the month. Only Sam had understood why I loved the jacket so much. The rough, crude cotton was a real, solid thing to rest my cheek on when my life was too insane for me to trust anything else. The deep pockets, at the hips and the breast, were large enough to hold anything—a knife, a gun, an interesting pebble or toy.

Now, fifteen years later, the jacket was still a size too big and I rolled the sleeves to my elbows out of habit. The collar was soft against the back of my neck with wear, the stiff buttons pliable with use. I'd not so much grown into the jacket, as it had grown into me. Every hunt I'd ever been on was written in the fabric—rough stitches of my own, and then neater and neater as I practised, sewing the jacket carefully every time it ripped. No matter how many times I washed it, the salty stains left by blood and sweat still dappled the dark fabric, a picture of each time I'd survived a difficult hunt. I loved the jacket more than was reasonable and it took me a moment to think of why I'd ever left it behind.

A dark stain on the right cuff reminded me. The stain was Dean's blood; it had wicked up my sleeve as I clutched at my dying brother, a dark reminder of him wherever I was. I'd stared at the stain for an hour at his grave side, the last time I'd worn the jacket. Choking on my grief, the jacket had been the weight holding my head beneath the water. I'd had to leave it, and Sam, behind, or I'd have drowned.

"Thank you," I whispered, pressing my face into the material. It smelled, so essentially, of me—blood, sweat, plain deodorant and shampoo that made my hair smell of lilacs. It was me, and it was hunting. I shrugged it on, feeling firmer in myself and in the life I was taking up once more.

Sam smiled softly. "Wouldn't recognise you without it," he simply said. He flicked the lights off and lay back down on his bed. In minutes, I could he and Dean snoring softly, rustling the blankets as they made slow, sleep movements. I lay awake for hours, rubbing my cheek against my up-turned collar, thinking less and less about home.

* * *

"Dean." At first, Dean ignored the voice. He was still mostly asleep, threads of his dream weighing him down, and he didn't want to wake straight away. "Dean," the voice called again, insistent and impossible to ignore.

Cracking open an eye, Dean rolled over onto his back. Sam and Clara were still soundly asleep to his right, their eyelids flickering with their own dreams. With a smirk, Dean noted the drool on Sam's chin. At the foot of his bed, looking more relaxed than usual, stood Cas, hands thrust into the pockets of his trench coat. "Cas. Wha'sa'marrer?"

"I came to ensure that Clara was okay. I'm not sure if was right to bring her here," the angel frowned.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face and pulled himself up to sit on the bed beside Cas. "Sure you were. You need her protected, right? Who can protect her better than her own brothers?"

"Me," Cas said significantly.

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the angel by the sleeve of his trench coat, pulling him down so that they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, facing the two sleeping Winchesters. "I know you're all badass, dude, but you just can't be here 24/7. Me and Sammy have got this for when you can't be here."

"I've never been a guardian angel before," Cas confessed.

"Well you'd better not screw it up, Angel Wings. If you get my sister hurt, I'll kick your feathery little ass to Hell myself." Dean said, not unkindly. "Just have some faith—in me, if you have none in yourself."

Slowly, as if the words were hard for him to understand, Cas murmured, "I want her to like me. I don't think she does, but I would like us to be friends, as I am your friend."

Dean breathed a low curse at the socially awkward angel. "Dude," he frowned, "kidnapping a chick isn't a cool way to make friends. But if you want to make up for it, here's a little tip . . . just because I can't be breaking up fights between my buddy and my little sis."

Cas leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, and listened to Dean's suggestion. He was gone before Dean had finished his sentence, leaving nothing but the sound of beating wings hanging in the air.

* * *

In my dream, I was flying. No monster could touch me, no brothers could hold me down; I was miles above the tallest building, higher than the topmost clouds. Above, the sun was bright and hot where the clouds I'd passed through were cold and wet. Raindrops clung to my clothes and light caressed my skin. I was huge and tiny, nothing at all and all the mattered, everything and empty space all at once. Was this what Castiel felt like when he flew?

Above me, even higher than the sun, was a different light, a softer light. I knew, as surely as I'd ever known anything, that I had to reach the light.

I had no wings, so I simply moved through the air like an arrow over water. Higher and higher, until the sky around me was dark and I was freezing cold, ice creasing my jacket and painting my fingers blue. The light was as far away as it had ever been, and I was falling, tumbling and spinning in my descent, gripped by the need to reach the unattainable light.

"Clara," I heard my name called, jerking me from sleep. Sam stood at the coot of my bed, a frown marking his forehead. "Bad dream?" he asked.

Words stuck in my dry throat, so I merely nodded. Swallowing, I managed to say, "Time?"

"Just gone 6:30," Dean called. He was packing his duffle, clothes strewn around him on the floor.

My head hit the pillow with a thud. "Oh, God, but I missed the early mornings," I groaned.

Castiel, stood at the window with his eyebrows pulled low over his clear blue eyes, frowned. "Was that sarcasm?" he asked Dean.

"Yes, Cas," Dean smiled, nodding meaningfully towards the bag at the angel's feet and then at me.

Cas's face cleared with understanding, a smile playing across his lips that only made him more handsome. "This is for you, Clara," he said, holding the bag out to me.

I took the duffle and unzipped it, surprised to find clothes—my clothes, from my little cottage. There were shirts, jeans, cargo trousers, my worn leather hunting boots, even—to my embarrassment—several of my bras and boyshorts briefs. "You went to my house? To . . . get me clothes?"

Cas looked slightly doubtful. "I—yes. Also, I turned off the tap you left running and got rid of the water. Was that wrong? My 'people skills' are 'rusty'," he muttered, making air quotes around the words.

I didn't know what to say. My kidnapper had gone back to pick up my wardrobe for me. I had to admit—I was touched. "No, uh, thank you, Cas." The short form of his name fell awkwardly from my lips, and I chewed on the pad of my thumb, a bad habit from childhood. "It means a lot."

I zipped up the bag again, deliberately looking away from Cas, who was deliberately staring at me. "Okay," Dean said loudly, throwing his bag over his shoulder and sliding a gun into his waistband, "time to hit the road, Princess. We need to be in Oregon ASAP to bust some ghosties."

I sighed, grabbing up the bag Cas had given me. The drive from Minnesota to Oregon would take a day and a night, and knowing Dean, we'd only stop to eat. I turned to call over my shoulder, "Come on, Cas—" I stopped, the words dying in my throat. He was already gone, no trace of him ever being there left behind.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, "he does that."


End file.
